


Knowing How It Ends

by PutAnotherX



Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: 1968, Brendon is 17 when the story starts, Eventual Smut, F/F, Gymnast AU, Homophobia, M/M, Shane Morris is a dickbag as always, but nothing serious happens until he's 18, career-ending homophobia, for real, its like the gay olympics, mild and brief abuse, olympic au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 09:17:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5242877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PutAnotherX/pseuds/PutAnotherX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Brendon Urie's private gymnastics coach retires, he needs a replacement and fast. In come Dallon Weekes, the golden boy of the 1960 Olympics in Rome and bad boy of the 1964 Olympics in Tokyo. A huge scandal that ended his own career as a gymnast, but that doesn't mean he isn't still the best there is. Temperamental, demanding, and mysterious, Dallon pushes Brendon harder than he's ever been pushed before. Meanwhile, Brendon becomes obsessed with discovering why Dallon's career ended the way it did. No one will tell him, and no one seem to want to talk about it at all, least of all Dallon. Little does Brendon know the secret that forced Dallon to give up the only thing he'd ever known is just about the only thing they have in common beside their flawless back hand springs.</p>
<p>Can they get to the Olympics and beat Ryan Ross and his coach Shane Morris to get the gold medal?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knowing How It Ends

**Villa Park, Orange County, California  
April 18th, 1967**

Brendon picked at the hem of his sweater vest, watching as the brown argyle pattern stretched and shrank. His mother pulled his hand into her lap and intertwined her fingers with his.

“Don’t fidget, dear,” she whispered. He rolled his eyes. “Mr. Weekes was so kind to come all this way just for an interview; you should give him your full attention.” Her dazzling white smile seemed all but invisible to the man in question, as his unaffected demeanor remained the same. He was perched stiffly on the olive green loveseat opposite Brendon and his parents. Although his face was blank, his eyes seemed to bore into Brendon, making him want to squirm even more.

Brendon’s father tapped his cigar against the ashtray. “How many gold medals did you say you got in ‘60?” he asked between puffs.

“Four,” Mr. Weekes answered.

Boyd grunted. “And in ’64?” 

“Four again.”

Boyd grunted again, going back to his newspaper and taking long drags from his cigar. Brendon could tell his father liked Mr. Weekes. They certainly seemed to like using few words, anyway. Brendon’s mother, on the other hand, obviously had some concerns. Brendon didn’t blame her one bit. Everything about Mr. Weekes was somber and morose, from his shiny black shoes to his all-black suit to his unkempt black hair. He was certainly handsome, but a permanent scowl was etched on his face.

“How old are you, Mr. Weekes?” she asked.

“22.” Not a hint of inflection seeped into his voice, but Grace kept her usual charm. “23 in May.”

“Our Brendon’s just turned 17 a few days ago,” she offered, “but just after his birthday, his coach told us he was retiring. Can you imagine?”

“Must’ve been a shock.”

Brendon saw his mother’s smile waver for just half a second.

“Mr. Weekes,” she began tentatively, “I’m sure you’re very qualified, but why should we let you train our son? You don’t seem to like people very much, and you of all people must know of your reputation.” Brendon was taken aback by Mr. Weekes' smile. Was that actually charming? Impossible.

“Mrs. Urie,” he said, “as far as I’m concerned, you’re not looking for a coach based on personality or reputation. You’re looking for a coach to take your son to the Olympics. And I can do that. With me, he can be an American hero. We’re not talking about bronze or silver. We’re talking about gold. Brendon is a great athlete. I can make him the best.”

________________________________________

“Hello, Mrs. Smith,” Brendon greeted. “Is Spencer home?”

Ginger Smith smiled her 1000-watt smile at him, standing in the elegant foyer of the mansion. The Smith family was the only one in Villa Park that was wealthier than the Uries. Spencer and Brendon had best friends since they were in diapers, and Brendon needed his friend now more than ever.

“He’s in his room, go on up.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Smith,” he called behind him as he darted up the stairs. He didn’t bother knocking on Spencer’s door as he pushed it open and threw himself dramatically on the bed. Spencer had his Johnny Cash record playing and his homework out on his desk.

“My life is over,” Brendon whined to him.

Spencer sighed. “What is it now?”

“Mom and Dad are signing a contract with my new coach right now.”

Spencer shot Brendon a look, but he turned back to his homework. “That sounds like a good thing.”

“It would be,” Brendon agreed, “if he wasn’t so creepy. He only wears black, and he only smiled once.”

Spencer sighed again and gave up, closing his textbook. “Is that all?” he asked as he turned his wooden desk chair to face Brendon.

“He’s going to be living with us,” Brendon said, not quite a whisper, but much more serious than he had been before. “Telling me what to eat and when to go to bed and what I’m allowed and not allowed to do.”

“There has to be something good,” Spencer said, “if they’re doing this. They must believe in you.”

Brendon squeezes his eyes shut and nods. “They think I can make it,” he said. “They think I can go to the Olympics.”

________________________________________

“Again,” Weekes demanded after Brendon finished another back hand spring. Brendon groaned.

“Seriously?” he panted. “This is the millionth time today!” He could barely talk through his deep, gasping breaths.

“Again.” A deep scowl has found its way to Weekes’ face, but Brendon was growing accustomed to seeing it. “Until it’s flawless every time.”

“That’s impossible!”

“Only if you let it be.”

________________________________________

“Seriously, Spence, he’s crazy,” Brendon complained, twisting the phone cord around his finger. Spencer couldn’t hide his laughter. “He is!” Brendon insisted, and he barely resisted the urge to slam his hand on the kitchen table. “My body is still sore from the first day. He won’t let me drink soda, and I have to have four glasses of milk every day. After that, it’s all water. No alcohol. He even asked my dad to start smoking outside. He’s got some looney theory about how it damages your lungs or something.”

“I don’t know, Bren,” Spencer argued. “He’s just trying to help you. He really wants you to succeed.”

“I have a theory about that,” Brendon said, ignoring Spencer’s noises of protest. “He’s gotta just be doing this so people will worship him again.”

“Whatever you say, Urie.” Brendon nearly jumped out of his skin as Weekes appeared behind him, and the yelp that escaped him was undignified at best. “But if you’re not in the car ready to go in twenty minutes, I’ll go train Ryan Ross.” Weekes was gone as quickly as he appeared, slinking into the living room.

“Was that him?” Spencer asked. He didn’t bother trying to hide his giggles this time.

“No,” Brendon said. “It was Santa Claus.”

“Who’s Ryan Ross?”

“Just another Olympic hopeful, you know the drill.”

Ryan Ross was not just another Olympic hopeful. Ryan Ross was Brendon’s biggest competition. He had years of experience on Brendon because he was older and had started younger. The way everyone talked about Ross made it sound like it was a done deal that he would be going to the Olympics. Even though more than one gymnast would qualify for the team, Brendon couldn’t help the knot that tied in his gut whenever Ross was mentioned.

Mr. Weekes seemed to know exactly how Brendon felt about it, and often made empty threats about going to train Ross when Brendon misbehaved.

“I gotta go, Spence,” he said. “I’ll see you tonight.”

________________________________________

Brendon was. A little tipsy. A little. He wasn’t drunk. He leaned over to talk in Spencer’s ear.

“I’m not drunk,” he said too loudly, making Spencer flinch.

“Okay,” Spencer said agreeably. He let Brendon hang on him, but most of his attention was on some new kid. Brendon thought his name might be Jim. Jon.

Jon, definitely Jon. This might be Jon’s party.

Suddenly, his stomach fluttered. He could feel bile rising in his throat. “Spence,” he croaked. “I’m gonna hurl.” He felt Spencer stiffen.

“One minute,” Spencer told Jon. Leading Brendon by the hand, he elbowed his way through the crowded living room. Every few feet he would yell something else like, “Move it, people,” or, “Future Olympian coming through,” until they got to a kitchen with a back door. Brendon felt a millisecond of relief as the crisp May air caressed his skin. Then the contents of his stomach began their exodus, and it was all he could do to try and focus on Spencer’s cool, firm hands moving in soothing circles over his back and pushing his normally neatly combed hair back from his sweaty forehead.

Brendon swore up and down in his mind that he’d never drink again.

________________________________________

“Dallon,” a worried voice called, interrupting his first pleasant dream in a month. “Dallon, Dallon, wake up.”

“Grace?” he rasped, still half asleep. “What time is it? What’s wrong?” He blinked and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

“It’s a quarter to midnight,” she whispered. “Brendon’s bed is empty.” Dallon’s mouth set into his trademark scowl.

“Go back to bed, Grace. I’ll take care of him,” he told her.

And so Dallon sank into the mustard yellow lounge chair in the living room with a newspaper. Mr. Urie never did the crosswords right. His back was facing the front door, but the sliding glass of the patio door in front of him would act as a mirror. Not to mention the heavy oak door always creaked no matter how slowly it was opened.

At 1:30 in the morning, Dallon had fixed five crosswords (he didn’t understand how Mr. Urie could mess them up that badly or why he felt the need to use pen) and composed 13 different obituaries for Brendon in his head. The door squealed. Without moving his head, Dallon spotted Brendon stumbling into the foyer reflected on the patio door. He let him get to the bottom stair before he spoke.

“Good morning, Brendon,” he greeted as cheerfully as he could muster, standing to face his frozen form.

“Good morning, Mr. Weekes,” Brendon slurred.

Excellent, Dallon thought self-pityingly. Late and drunk as a skunk.

“Do you know what time it is, Brendon?” he asked.

Brendon hesitated, still poised to escape up the stairs to his room. “Time for bed?” he guessed.

“I imagine so,” Dallon agreed calmly. “Because I’ll be getting you up at 6 o’clock sharp for training, and I don’t care if I have to haul your ass out of bed. Do you understand me?”

Brendon’s shoulders slumped, and he turned to face Dallon. “Yes, Mr. Weekes,” he said. His face was flushed, dark hair sticking up at ridiculous angles, eyes filled with a mirth that even getting caught couldn’t quite stomp out. But his mouth was what really made Dallon’s mind flip. Brendon’s wide, full lips were red and swollen, and Dallon could easily call to mind several activities that could have caused it. Several he suddenly wished he could try with Brendon.

He snapped back to reality.

“This will not happen again.”

The only problem was that he didn’t know if he was talking to Brendon or himself.  


**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry if this got weird in places i just. its 2 am here and i'm posting this anyway and i'll try to fix it after class tomorrow.


End file.
